


It's When I Break

by ThisPeep



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Little Bit of Everything, M/M, little bit of gay, little bit of mental shut downs, little bit of panic attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-27 12:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5048494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisPeep/pseuds/ThisPeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's really no better place to go, when on the very edge of a small mental breakdown, then one's psychiatrist's home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's When I Break

It frustrated me, the way he looked at me. It was terribly new and awful and his eyes burned my skin, heating my bones and paying attention to me and not just what I was saying and even if I didn’t hate eye contact my own eyes still wouldn’t have skated to have him any closer to the focus of my sight then the very edge of my vision.

It made me jealous, too. The way he could just look. Just stare at someone and I knew he could see, too. Not the same level I saw, but he was trained to dissect things and learn from just looking. He could look and really see someone-- but not enough that he had to shield his eyes to avoid his mind getting blinded.

I tried to will my eyes closer to his. I knew it was pointless; his mask stayed over his eyes as well and I never fell in. I could have looked at him just fine, really. I knew seeing him wouldn’t suck me under anything, I wouldn’t drown in the thoughts whizzing through neuron jumps behind his eyes.

But the chance it’d fall for a second and I’d be completely unprepared to stop myself from being absorbed was too terrifying to risk. I avoided his gaze even more than others. 

Yet he constantly sook mine out.

Especially when I was aggravated or panicking. I did that a lot around him. Or, he was usually around when I did. It wasn’t because of him, even though he unnerved me unendingly, but rather I tended to go to him to deal with things that shatterable closer to my core.

Like then, for instance. I was sitting in his living room, shaking, sitting in a couch that seemed intent on consuming me, and I sunk into it’s mouth without complaint. He’d put me there, so I’d survive.

He was kneeling on the floor in front of me, hand politely and unobtrusively laid on the armrest, and he was speaking softly to me.

Basic things. Saying my name, asking if I could hear him, asking if I could say something, suggesting that I blinked or looked at him, and he wonded aloud if he should get me a blanket.

I nodded my head to that. I hadn’t bothered to respond to the rest; it was dangerous to contemplate answers when so much of my energy was going into not thinking. It was rude to impose a shut down on him, I knew, but I wouldn’t feel safe doing so anywhere but his home with him at my side. At my own house there was too much risk. I had felt it coming on, I must have driven there. I don’t remember. Lost time.

He paused instead of leaving to get me one, and I didn’t bother to consider why. Later he told me he’d had concerns for leaving me alone.

It was such a brief disappearance I hardly remember it. He was by my side one moment, I blinked, and then he was laying a blanket over me. Hesitating before he pulled it up over my shoulders.

“Should I go?”

I shook my head no. Almost violently. That was worth thinking about, staving off my much needed brain pause for that bit longer. 

He nodded and sat down next to me. I let myself fall to rest against him, liking the way he seemed to start to untense after a few moment.

My lids fell down over my sight and brought blessed relief. No more eyes. A solid, protecting presence against me. 

A thumb was rubbing soothing circles in my far shoulder when things fell into a comforting quiet black.

 

Of course, blinking back later had been an embarrassing ordeal. Waking up to find yourself curled up on your psychiatrist could be nothing but. I flinched away, alerting him to my newlyfound consciousness. 

That perfect mask didn’t betray any of the emotions he had to be feeling, for the flash I saw of it before looking at my hands. Heat tickled the nape of my neck, undoubtedly making an appearance on skin at large. He didn’t show his notice of it. 

“I’m sorry.” Nothing but an apology could have been the first thing that fell from my lips. It was plainly stated but sincere. I hoped he could tell from my voice, there was no glimpse of my eyes that could have backed up the apology.

He hadn’t moved away, either. We were still close. I’d been the only one to put space between us, and it’d been a short burst that hadn’t gotten me very far. Just no longer laid against him. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

Of course there was. Causing a disruption in his day. Appearing unannounced, being largely unresponsive, passing out on him after I managed to clear my mind of others’. “How long?”

He glanced at his wrist, taking note of the time, spending a brief moment to calculations. “No more than three hours and a half.”

He could have said over three hours. He didn’t. I shifted uncomfortably; he was doing his best to placate me and yet here I was, ducking his touches and avoiding looking at him.

Maybe he was used to it. It wasn’t unusual for me to be… lacking in social grace.

I sighed, and slumped back against the couch’s arm. He continued to look at me neutrally. I didn’t have to see him do so, it was easy enough to feel.

Three and a half hours. About. That should tide me over for a little while, at least. I shouldn’t need to break again in the near future. Then again, they were happening more frequently. I couldn’t be sure of the usual patterns, nowadays. Everything had been getting more insistent.

“When was the last time it happened?”

One day I’d learned the difference between a psychiatrist and a mindreader. But he wasn’t helping me differentiate between the two. “A little over a month ago.” Month and five days.

“And before that?”

Mind reader. Or possibly a very understandable and common question to ask. “Two months.”

He tilted his head.

“Three months. Then three months again. Around three months, at least.” They used to tick regularly. As far as they could have a set time, it’s not like they had happened my whole life.

“And when did they start?”

I stole a quick glance to his face, finding only interest there before my gaze found itself settled on the unlit fireplace. “A year ago.”

He nodded carefully. “Have they been getting longer as well?” As well as more frequent.

I nodded in return. They used to only last about an hour. Over three times as long was more than a little concerning. Then again, they’d gotten about three times as frequent as well. I looked over at him again, but not his eyes. Hard to avoid looking at, being in the center of the face, and I had to end up on his lips. Searching for twitches there that betrayed his feelings.

“You were shaking.”

“I was cold.”

“You were having a panic attack.”

Steal a glimpse of his eyes. Except it didn’t quite stay as a glimpse, because his eyes were so perfectly blank and I’d so missed being able to look actual people in the eyes, even if having nothing given was discomforting. 

The rest of his face, though, showed all tentative concern. Assurity, too, and I finally gave in with a curt tilt of my head down and back again. I didn’t want to vocally confirm it.

He stood up, and I took a split second to hide the loss from affecting my expression. Less warmth, more seclusion. It’d been nice to have someone near for once.

“I’ll get you something to drink.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and I contemplated following for a moment before deciding against it. He’d clearly intended to fetch something, and his kitchen was his domain entirely. I’d never step into it without clear permission. I might end up on the counter, for all I knew. Best not to invade people’s personal spaces so carelessly.

In any case, he returned in only a few minutes, a mug that was steaming with warmth in his hand before he put it on the table end next to me. “Warm milk with honey and vanilla extract.”

I felt my own lips turn upwards with amusement. Had to be a bit fancy, and announced properly. I reached out and closed my hand around the milk, placing the mug on my knee and letting the blanket protect me from the main force of it’s heat as it cooled to drinkable.

He sat down next to me again, and at that moment I wanted little more than to return to my previous place of leaning against him.

But that had been excusable before. I was having a panic attack. Human contact was bound to be sought after, it meant nothing. And the fact I’d come here, well-- what better place to go when on the verge on a mini mental break then one’s psychiatrist?

Except that his arm slipped around the back of my shoulders and he eased me closer. It was a very light hold, easy enough to break out of if I so chose. 

I shifted more of my weight against him, pulling my legs up underneath me before settling down again.

It wasn’t cuddling. That much was obvious. He was hardly curled up around me at all, and we weren’t intertwined in any way. It was simply him offering comfort, and me eating it up like a starved man.

Maybe I was a bit starved for it. Apart from animals, affectionate touches weren’t common in my life.

I read somewhere you were meant to have seven a day, or seven seconds a day, for optimum mental health helping.

I think I might have had seven seconds total in the past month, if I included handshakes.

It was my fault, too, I tended to avoid touch. It came with the expectation of eye contact, and I hated having to constantly disappoint.

His hand moved from my shoulder, and for a moment I thought he was going to stand or pull away, but instead his fingers started carding through my hair.

I wanted to say something, of course. To question and interrogate and find out what was happening, exactly, to him and in his mind and have him tell me why he was doing it, if any reason beyond trying to calm my nerves after my shut down. But it felt very fragile, and I wasn’t skilled enough in interaction to verbally handle the delicacy of the situation. Surely I would break it, and lose it, whatever it was.

It was better to be unsure and keep it than attempt to find out and have it taken from me.

I raised the mug to my lips and took a sip, the heat not quite burning my tongue, and I felt the warmth travel down and spread out in a fading web. I made a soft sound of appreciation, and he used his thumb to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear.

I felt his eyes on me again and while I still wasn’t comfortable with the gaze, it was acceptable.

It always frustrated me, though, the way he looked at me. Like I was interesting, like I was worth looking at.

**Author's Note:**

> low-key gay. low low low key gay.


End file.
